The nature of writing itself—the act, its motivations, its medium (primarily letters, but also such crucial documents as Clarissa’s will), the limitations of that medium (especially the vulnerability of letters to interference and forgery)—constitutes a major theme of Clarissa.

The textual ruptures that mark Volume VI complement the narrative ruptures that drove much of our discussion. Commenting on Letter 310, Rachel pointed out a dangerous naivete that Anna and Clarissa share: “their act of trust in the conveyance and delivery” of their letters. (Commenting on Letter 295, Rachel phrased so nicely the result of Lovelace’s interferences—that they cut Clarissa off “from any contact that he did not authorize”—so suggestive a word in the novel’s complex epistolary universe [my italics].) And the forgeries that Lovelace passes off on Clarissa and Anna—manipulating both women in order to forward his schemes—reveal another important vulnerability of letters’ textual materiality.

That materiality is also subject to the situation and state of mind of the correspondent. As Debra commented in her post on Clarissa’s “mad letters,” the delirium induced by her being drugged and raped are echoed directly in those letters’ content and their physical appearance—“even to the level of syntax and form.”

Importantly, Clarissa’s recovery depends fundamentally on her ability to wrest textual control back from Lovelace—even, in a sense, from Anna, who has been pushed to premature judgment of Clarissa by Lovelace’s forgeries. (Note how Anna actually co-opts phrases from Clarissa’s first letter after her escape [Letter 310]—to turn them back as criticism of Clarissa’s presumed behavior.)

Still, that first letter to Anna ( Letter 295) after the forgeries is an important beginning for Clarissa. As Jessica noted, Clarissa feels compelled to resume the correspondence both because “it would make her feel less lost,” and, perhaps even more importantly, help her become “less hated (by herself and others).” Keri observed that this renewed opportunity to write beyond Lovelace’s interferences “shows a freedom (to write and to piece together the story for herself) that she has not had in quite some time.” And as Steve commented in posting on “Letter 317,” this new writing helps “to allow for resignation” to her new situation.

Clarissa’s new freedoms—from imprisonment by Lovelace, to free correspondence—will flower most fully in the texts she continues writing to produce the most detailed record of her life with Lovelace and afterwards: as Rachel phrased it, “something that can be written, recorded, read, witnessed to long after she has died.” For Clarissa, healing the textual ruptures created by her madness and by Lovelace’s interferences are one crucial way in which she takes up healing herself.